Fly Bird
by kc creation
Summary: Heiderich says that every day should be a celebration of survival, but Edward isn't quite sure what to believe anymore.


**Fly Bird**

Edward finds himself staring at the naked cords of his prosthetic arm as the mechanic peels away the plastic flesh like that of a chicken, exposing the spidery, closefitting shafts of metal that wrap beneath the slightly discolored faux-skin to form makeshift fingers. The separate, close-knit shafts of metal that craft his knuckles remind him of the meager silverware that Heiderich keeps in his kitchen drawer.

"_It's only for special occasions." _

_His brother's doppelganger had mentioned offhandedly on the morning of Edward's arrival as he toured him through the crowded apartment. It was only a few days later that the former alchemist realized that they used it every night, but when he finally questioned the man about it, he was answered with a mirthful chuckle of,_

"_Every day we survive is to be celebrated," His eyes, glassy in the bleary light of dusk, he whispered, "And why shouldn't we celebrate while we can? We're all living on borrowed time, after all."_

Edward has trouble fathoming the depth of these words, so he tries to forget them; to forget the way this strange, dreamy teenager looks so much like his own younger brother who was always trying to remind him to appreciate his own time on earth.

The mechanic is a short and stout man whose mustache tells of many a beard burn on the face of his unfortunate young wife (whom, Edward notes with the tiniest of smiles, the man has mentioned three times since they'd met ten minutes ago for this regular, routine checkup).

"So you're not from around here?"

He asks as rough but nimble fingers work the cords of metal into place, brushing excess oil from the exposed wires.

"Your accent is a little off."

He explains hastily, as Edward struggles to catch his bearings before they leave him completely. The blonde is silent for a moment, flexing his tense shoulder blade.

"Yes."

He answers curtly, voice choked in the thick, oily air of the checkup shop.

"I moved here under a year ago."

He knows he has no obligation to explain himself and definitely he shouldn't be feeling uncomfortable under the man's steady gaze, but he knows what is sitting heavily in his mind, the _'why'_ that's nagging him as he fine tunes the prosthetic with subtly shaking fingers. And Edward knows, by the way he bites his lip that he's thinking, _'What a terrible time to be a cripple in Germany.'_

"Where are you from?"

He opts for the simpler question, as Ed assumed he would, but it still takes a moment for the otherworldly teen to reply, automatic, robotic, and so full of avoidance.

"Far away."

He draws out rather vaguely, words a gentle hum above the clinking of metals.

'_The States?'_ He can see the realization materializing in the mechanic's molten irises, springing fourth like a curse within the cloud of indifference that his tragic country has placed upon him.

'_What a terrible time for an American in Germany.'_

He knows the man is thinking. If only he knew that Edward's situation was so much worse.

"So how much does it cost to get from there to here?"

The mechanic asks, quickly regaining his composure, although there is certain vehemence in the way he spits _'there',_ like a code word for "the wretched land" or "The Unholy". It is the kind of _'there'_ that is bit out from the clenched and bitter teeth of an innocent man who has lost his entire world to the clutches of such a boastful country that left nothing but destruction and poverty in its wake.

Edward smothers a retort. The fingers of his prosthetic arm twitch and jump. His hand is a trapped bird under the mechanic's heavy palms, just as he, himself, is desperate to spread his wings and fly away from this terrible place, but is locked in the cage of this false reality.

"An arm and a leg."

He answers finally, only moments after the spindly claws of their silence have settled upon them, smothering their forced ease in its unyielding grasp.

The mechanic fakes a laugh, smoothing the flesh back into place over his metal bones.

"But hopefully I can get home soon to see my brother again."

His fingers are released and he catches the air in his fist, testing the strength of this newly acquired limb. It is so much less efficient than automail, but still a mixed blessing from a God he's not sure if he even believes in enough to hate anymore.

He fishes in his pockets for his pay, dropping the coins and paper money into the man's open palm and rising to make his exit. Before he can even muster the words _'keep the change', _the mechanic has his wrist –flesh against flesh, his eyes are alight in the morning gloom that seems to emanate from the very sun in this cold and tired world.

"Get out while you can."

He whispers, voice hoarse, ground through the gears of his throat and croaked from quivering lips.

"They'll keep those goddamn Jews and gypsies alive for months in their camps, but they'll shoot you on sight. Do you hear what they're trying to do? They want a utopian society; one without any cripples and Jews and queers. They're planning a slaughter."

Frost climbs up his spine, settling like a glacier in the golden pools of his eyes. The mechanic lets his hand slip away. Their exchange goes unnoticed by the other patrons. Edward catches a glimpse of a man with eyelids burned closed. He is laughing. He wants to berate him for his cheerfulness, but he yearns to laugh as well. He can feel his stomach churn.

He takes his leave after nodding goodbye to his mechanic.

It's only when the checkup center is completely out of sight that he lets his lips part and vomits violently onto the cold awaiting pavement of the sidewalk. It sizzles sickly in the cold, mingling with old rain water puddles and running in thin, murky rivers into the storm drains. Disgusted pedestrians shove him aside, holding their breath or murmuring darkly as they pass.

"Drunk!"

A thoroughly flustered woman shrieks, clutching her wide-eyed child close as she shuffled around him, avoiding him like a plague. His answering grin is both toothy and false. His eyes are a ghost, a phantom gold in the all-consuming gray-scale.

Heiderich wonders later why he insists that they eat dinner at the pub. He replies hastily that every day is a celebration of life, which manages to tear a soft chuckle from the Aryan's smiling lips.

Honestly, however, he just doesn't want to touch the silverware that lies, so uniform, in the kitchen drawer.

_Fin._

_So I took some liberties with the timeline, sort of bumping Edward's arrival up a few years so he met Heiderich a little after Hitler's takeover and not directly before. I was slightly disappointed that they didn't touch on the concept of Edward's prosthetics as often in the movie, but whatever… I still enjoyed it!_

_I have about two weeks until finals. I'm a little worried that my writing will suffer next semester, since Creative Writing is just a one semester class, so let's hope I'm wrong!_

_Thank you for reading and please feel free to let me know what you thought of this!_


End file.
